Title: Clean
Author: Aranea Mayfly

Rating: PG, no big whoop.

Category: Mulderangst, some reassurance from Scully.

Spoilers: Three Words I guess. Mulder comes home but
it goes off in a different direction that the episode.
I had a different idea and am going to stick to it.
Didn't like the coming home scene in Three Words, so I
wrote my own. Some of the situations will look
familiar and others not, but I took the liberty to
pick and choose what I liked from the scene. Time of
day is different, some dialogue is the same, some is
rearranged, and other is entirely new. Ah, the joy of
fanfic.  Doggett Free Zone.

Disclaimer.  Look both ways before you cross the
street. Hold hands and stick together. Don't run with
scissors. Don't eat yellow snow. Don't believe for a
minute that I own any of the characters, situations,
and themes that are the X-files. Alas, they belong to
Chris Carter, Fox Television, and Ten Thirteen
Productions. If they belonged to me, there would be no
waffling on Will's paternity, Mulder would be back for
season 9 as the focus of the show, and Doggett would
still be a cop in New York never to step foot in the
basement office. So please don't sue me, because you'd
be fightin' for pennies.

Archive: Yes Gossamer, Xemplary, Spooky's and
Ephemeral. Other sites - sure, go for it. Just please
let me know where.

Feedback: mayfly1013@aol.com. Come on, we all love
feedback, present company included.

A big ol' SCHANKS to Pebbles, Lelila, and Euphrosyne
for the timely beta help that put me through the
paces.

Summary: Sometimes the past makes it hard to feel
whole, feel clean.

~~~~~
Clean
~~~~~
 
 

...craved was the darkness made
by enfolding arms, the silence
which is not solitude,
but compassion holding its breath.

 - Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth
 
 

The sun had long since dipped below the suburban
horizon, and a gnawing chill kicked a discarded
newspaper down the street as a dark sedan pulled up to
the curb and came to a rest in front of the brick
apartment building in Alexandria.  Its occupants
opened their doors in silence as the darkening sky
spat stinging droplets of rain on the concrete.

Dana Scully popped open her umbrella as she retrieved
the duffel from the back seat and made her way to the
passenger side of the automobile. Her partner Mulder
sat for a long moment, staring up at the brown
concrete building before wearily hauling himself to a
stand and taking the bag from her. He snugged the
collar of his coat tight before joining her under the
protective canopy she held above him.   Despite
everything he'd been through, he was finally coming
home. It didn't seem real. Part of him still expected
to wake up on board an alien ship, a victim of yet
another one of their countless mind games.

His steps were slow and tentative as he followed her
up the familiar concrete steps and into the building.
He glanced over to the row of mailboxes, amazed that
after his absence, his name was still affixed with a
ragged piece of masking tape to the tiny door.

"Hey, Mulder," his partner offered, "why don't we take
the elevator?"

Inwardly, he let out a sigh of relief. He didn't have
the strength to climb four flights of stairs, and he
knew it. Acknowledging her suggestion, he smacked the
button to the elevator and watched silently as the
scratched and weathered doors squeaked open, a stark
contrast to the advanced technology that had once been
his prison.

As soon as they stepped into the tiny lift, his
nostrils flared at the hanging scent of stale pizza
mingled with cigarette smoke.  The stench was too much
for him.  His stomach roiled in protest, and he bit
back the urge to gag. Fighting off the rising bile, he
shrunk into the corner as the antiquated elevator
lurched upward.

"Are you okay?" Scully asked as she relieved him of
his duffel bag.  He backed further into the corner
before she could lay her hand on his forearm.

Mulder finally looked up and answered, "I think so."
But he didn't know how to tell her that every
sensation was assailing his body as if they'd been
amplified. The whirl of the elevator painfully crashed
through his ears and jarred his blossoming headache
into high gear.  How could he explain to her that his
clothes chafed and burned his skin?  For months there
had been nothing - no sounds, smells, tastes, only the
pain that they had inflicted.  And on some level, he'd
become accustomed to the maddening void. But now as he
headed up to apartment forty-two, he didn't think he
could handle the barrage of new sensations.

When they finally reached his apartment, Mulder patted
down his coat pockets, frustrated that he couldn't
find his keys, only to let out an exasperated sigh
when he realized he no longer had them. They had taken
them along with what little personal belongs he had at
the time of his capture - his wallet and phone, his
service revolver, her golden cross that she had placed
around his neck. Absently, his hand went to his bare
neck as the loss of her treasured gift suddenly hit
him.  They had taken everything from him - his health,
his life, and even her.

"Here, let me do that," said Scully as she retrieved a
set of keys from her pocket.

"Thanks," he quietly answered as he followed her into
the apartment.

She flipped on the entryway light, and he wandered
into the familiar surroundings. Nothing seemed out of
place, and it was as though he had never left. The
scratchy Indian blanket was still draped over his
well-worn leather couch, the spidery coat rack still
kept silent watch by the door. A rough coating of
spackle still did a poor job hiding a repaired bullet
hole in the wall.

Mulder wandered through the living room, examining
each object as if for the first time. He ran his
fingertips over the top of his desk, amazed that it
wasn't coated in a thick layer of dust and paused
briefly by the empty basket where he used to keep his
mail.

He turned to survey the room once more. "Something's
different," he mumbled under his breath as he leaned
his weight onto the desk.

"Yeah," Scully answered with a smile, "it's clean."

Only then did he allow himself the very slightest of
smiles in return before he continued his silent
inspection of his surroundings.  "I'm scared to see
what's in the fridge," he quipped.

"Oh, don't worry," she bantered back.  "That little
petri dish was the first to go. You know, Mulder,
orange juice does have an expiration date. There was
some in there older than most kindergarteners."

"Hey, it was vintage."

"Mulder, it was rotten," she shot back, her attempt to
lighten the mood obviously falling on deaf ears.

He turned his attention to the gurgling aquarium
nestled in his bookcase.  Taking a mental inventory of
its contents, he counted its tiny occupants as if the
fish were suddenly more interesting than joking with
his partner.  "I'm missing a molly."

"She wasn't as lucky as you," Scully quietly answered,
her voice threatening to waver.

"Depends on your definition of lucky," he replied over
his shoulder.  He certainly didn't feel lucky. Clearly
he had a new lease on life, but it had nothing to do
with luck.  Cursed was more like it.

Nothing felt right. His home, though it looked no
different, felt foreign.  The woman standing before
him looked nothing like the Scully from his memories.
She had changed so much, and not just physically.  Her
voice was softer, perhaps a bit more vulnerable. And
her emotions were no longer hid behind a litany of
"I'm fine's" and stoic iciness. In some ways, he felt
like he was talking to a complete stranger.

Maybe the fish was the lucky one.  At least it didn't
have to return to a world it didn't know.  Flushed -
no doubt down the toilet - its purpose in life was
over. Why was it so important he returned from the
grave while the fish remained undisturbed and still
very much dead? Did his life still have a purpose?

"What do you mean by that?" she asked.

"I don't know," he sighed.  Maybe dead was better. The
dead molly certainly didn't have to feel like a zombie
walking among strangers. It got off easy.

"What's going on, Mulder?" she asked.  "Do you want to
talk about it?"

"Not really," he stammered, staring intently at the
worn floor.  The scuff on the baseboard was definitely
much easier to focus on than her intent, blue eyes. "I
know you aren't going to take this the right way.  I
don't mean to sound cold or ungrateful." He paused
trying to explain his growing confusion, but nothing
sounded right.  "But I don't know how I fit in
anymore.  I'm just having a hard time processing all
this."

"It's okay," Scully replied. She gave him the space he
craved. He wasn't ready for much physical contact yet.
Intimacy was something too new and frankly terrifying.
He already felt vulnerable enough. He didn't know how
he could handle anything new.  Learning to live again
was enough of a challenge.

He turned his head away before he had to look her in
the eyes.  "It's going to take some time.  We'll get
through this," she added as she drew closer and gently
placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Don't," he snarled, immediately regretting his action
as he twisted away from the contact.  He couldn't miss
the sorrow that spread across her face or the unshed
tears that glistened in her eyes.

Mulder took a deep breath.  "Look Scully, I'm sorry...I
don't know how to put this.  But I just don't feel
like being touched. I need some space.  It's...it's just
a little hard to handle right now."

"Would it be better if I left?" she asked.

He drew in a sharp breath.  He was going to sound like
a jerk no matter how he tried to phrase it.  "Yeah,"
he answered with a sigh knowing his decision was the
last thing she needed to hear.  "I think so.  I don't
want you to take it the wrong way, but I know I'm not
going to be great company tonight. I think I just want
to go to bed.  I'll give you a call in the morning."

"Okay," she conceded. There was no way he could miss
her voice deflate with disappointment, but was
thankful that she didn't push him further.  "Just
humor me first and let me make sure you're all settled
in before I head out."

"Fine," he answered.  It was the least he could do. No
sense arguing with her. It would only make this matter
worse.

Why couldn't he accept her simple gestures of
kindness? Why did everything around him make him feel
trapped?  Too tired to go searching for the answers,
he added, "Well, if you don't mind, I think I'll head
to the shower. Haven't had one of those in almost a
year."

Slipping off his leather jacket, he draped it
unceremoniously across one of the chairs of his
dinette as he strode back to the bedroom and turned on
the bedside lamp.  He'd spent too much time in the
dark over the past months, but he resisted the nagging
temptation to turn on every light in his tiny
apartment. One light would have to do for now.

He stripped off his shoes and socks, throwing them in
a jumbled heap before retreating to the tiny cubicle
of a bathroom.  He leaned in and turned the tap on,
noting as he drew the curtain the total lack of mildew
where it had once flourished.  His surroundings were
immaculately clean. Scully had seen to that.  Too bad
she couldn't do the same job to his soul. No matter of
scrubbing could erase the unseen layers of death and
decay clinging to his skin.

As warm steam filled the room, he crouched on the
balls of his feet and reached into the underbelly of
his sink to find the comforting contours of his hidden
spare revolver.  Apparently she hadn't found it - or
chose to ignore it - during her sanitizing mission.
Secure in its clip, it provided a futile reassurance.
Though it would serve no use if they were to come for
him again, he felt a little safer knowing he wouldn't
be entirely unarmed.

Shaking off the growing anxiety, Mulder pulled himself
back to a stand and peeled off his jersey.  And as he
started to unzip his jeans, something in the fogged
mirror caught his eye. Taking his shirt, he wiped away
the condensation and stood before it with abject
horror.

"Mulder," Scully's voice interrupted from the doorway.
"Here's a clean towel..."

He didn't even hear her as his jersey slid from his
hand and formed a faded blue puddle on the floor.  His
other hand went to the angry, healing scar on his
chest.  Starting in the hollow between his
collarbones, it traversed the length of his chest,
diverting around his navel in a southward course that
dipped below the waistband of his jeans.  Terrified by
what he saw reflected back at him, he closed his eyes
and let his fingertips memorize its puckered and taut
texture.

"Mulder," he finally heard as she repeated his name.

Startled from his thoughts, he opened his eyes slowly
and asked, his voice barely above a whisper, "What did
they do to me?"

"They hurt you," she simply answered, averting her
eyes from the hideous mark on his chest.

Part of him resented the simplification, but another
part was thankful that she spared him the gory
details. He wasn't sure if he was ready for the rest
of the truth just yet.

"You still don't remember much, do you?"

"Not much," he lied as he tried to cover the hideous
mark on his chest with his arm.  He didn't need her to
know that he had already been flooded with a barrage
of confusing imagery from the moment he awoke in the
hospital - harsh lights, blinding pain, and isolation.
"Ironic, huh? You'd think I'd remember getting
something this big."

"You'll remember when you're ready," Scully softly
replied, echoing the advice he had once given her
after her own disappearance.

"Great," he sneered, the sarcasm unavoidable.  "Don't
know if I want to."

He stooped to retrieve his shirt then reached behind
the shower curtain to turn the water off.  Having
second thoughts about taking a shower, he couldn't
stomach the thought of seeing the other scars that
disfigured his body.  He didn't want to look at the
grisly reminders; he didn't want to remember.  The
truth was out there, and it scared the shit out of
him.

He did his best to slide past her, avoiding her ever-
expanding abdomen - yet another change he didn't want
to deal with. It would have to wait like everything
else.  Heading toward his bed, he tossed his jersey on
the growing heap on the floor.  He did his best to
ignore her silent but concerned glance as he pulled a
gray long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of plaid flannel
pajama bottoms out of the dresser.  Peeling off his
jeans, he quickly changed in silence. Usually one to
sleep in just a pair of boxers, tonight he wanted
every inch of his skin covered.

"Mulder," Scully pleaded from the doorway.  It wasn't
like him to retreat like this. "What's going on?"

Finally he turned toward her, and tried his best not
to snap at her. "I'm fine," he declared through
clenched teeth, throwing her own well-used words back
at her, hoping that she would understand their
meaning: back off.

"I don't need a babysitter."

"Talk to me, Mulder," she pleaded as she took one step
into the bedroom.

But talking was the last thing he wanted to do.
Drawing back the comforter, he slid beneath the covers
and turned out the bedside lamp. "Tomorrow," he
answered.

*Never* was more like it if he could have his way.

Rolling over, he turned his back on his partner,
hating himself more by the minute for pushing her
away.  He wanted nothing more than to feel safe in her
embrace, inhale the comforting scent of her perfume,
and pretend that the past year had never happened. But
no, it was easier to be a callous asshole and isolate
himself from anyone and everyone. A vacuum was good.
He didn't have to feel anything in a vacuum.

He lay perfectly still, his forearms scissored on
either side of a pillow.  He drew in a sharp breath
and squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that his actions
had stung his partner, wincing as he felt regret
slither its way back to his conscience.  Why did every
one of his actions always wind up hurting her? But he
quickly suppressed the need to chase after her and
tried his best to vanish into the folds of the
comforter as he heard her footsteps retreat.  Alone
with his thoughts, he prayed for a dreamless slumber
to overtake him as he waited for daylight to come.

***

// His screams still echoed in his head.  For that
matter, they were the only sound that resonated in the
damp and darkened chamber.  Shivering in the cold, he
wrapped his arms around his naked form in a futile
attempt to ward off the chill.  He tried his best to
hide in the shadows, but he knew they would find him.
They always had a way of finding him.

He swore he wouldn't break down, he promised himself
he wouldn't beg.  But how could he have been so wrong?
Alien hands grasped his wrists and ankles, and he
thrashed wildly against their grip.  At first he was
driven by anger, but that had long since given way to
pure, unadulterated fear.

He could do nothing as they shoved him atop a massive
chair that rose out of the barren floor to meet his
trembling body.   They forced his arms into grooves on
either side of the chair, and he let out an
unintelligible, anguished scream as a bolt pierced
each wrist one by one. White-hot agony burned up one
arm and down the other.  His voice was already raw and
hoarse by the time they did the same to his ankles.
Pinned like an insect on display, he could feel his
own blood congealing around the fresh wounds and
coursing down his limbs in sticky rivulets.

And that was only the beginning...

If only he could have been lucky enough to have
survived without any memories.  The ones he had were
all too vivid.  A prisoner aboard the alien craft, he
had been drugged into a maddening paralysis. He could
do nothing as his captors repeatedly assailed his
body. He'd screamed as they'd tethered him down with
metallic wires that tore at his face, prayed to a god
he didn't believe in as steely probes dug into his
skull to sample his neural tissue.  He'd pleaded to
his unseen captors as vials of his blood, marrow,
semen, and bile were methodically extracted.  He'd
begged for mercy as the rotating blades had ripped
gaping incisions in his abdomen and forceps had torn
out bleeding samples of his viscera.  But no one had
heard his cries. He'd been alone, completely and
utterly alone.  Worst of all, he'd been awake though
all of it.  They had seen to it.  They wanted him to
feel, remember everything - the tests, the
vivisection, the senseless violation. //

***

Mulder shot bolt upright, a strangled cry dying
wordlessly on his lips as he woke from his dream.
Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and his t-shirt
clung damply to his heaving chest.  Drawing in ragged
breaths, he tried to calm himself as he desperately
searched out his surroundings. His heart pounded madly
against his chest and he could feel the blood roar in
his ears.

His eyes darted around the room.  His alarm clock
illuminated the nightstand with its eerie red glow,
and the rain gently splattered against the closed
window. He was home, he tried to reassure himself.  He
was safe, not an unwilling prisoner pinned in place,
trapped in the dank recesses of an alien craft. Only
when he realized that he was in his own bed and not
secured to a restraining chair did he finally convince
himself that he was home.

He wasn't sure how he had extricated himself from the
tangle of blankets, let alone make it to the bathroom
and flip the lights on.  But somehow Mulder managed to
find his way in the dark to vomit the last oily
vestiges of his nightmare into the porcelain bowl.  He
clutched the sides of the toilet firmly with a white-
knuckled grip as he heaved one last time, his entire
body shaking in an attempt to rid himself of the
terrifying memories.

"Mulder?" Scully's sleepy voice called from the
doorway, her pregnant form silhouetted against the
darkened hallway.

Quickly pulling the lever, he flushed the toilet
before looking up at her.  Before she could take
another step closer, he held her at bay with an
outstretched arm.  "Don't," he groaned.

"Mulder," she repeated, concern filling her voice,
"you're sick.  Are you okay?"

"I thought you went home," he spat into the toilet
before closing the lid. She didn't need to see him
like this - sweaty and shaking.  He didn't want her
pity and didn't deserve her comfort after the way he'd
been treating her.  It was easier to lash out than to
turn to her for help.

"I guess I dozed off on the couch," she answered,
apparently oblivious to his hostility.

Turning his head from her, he begged, "Go home,
Scully. I'm fine. Please, just leave me alone."

Ignoring his plea, she entered the narrow bathroom and
pulled a washcloth from the shelf. Running it under
the tap then wringing it out, she awkwardly tried to
kneel beside him and gently wiped the spittle from his
lips. Immediately he stiffened from the contact and
pulled away.  "Let me help you," she offered.

He didn't answer at first. Instead, he slid back until
he was resting against the wall, the back of his head
against the windowsill. She kept her distance as he
pulled himself into a protective ball. Wrapping his
arms around his knees, he stared into the nothingness
on the floor for several long moments before he
whispered, "I figured there'd be flashbacks.  But I
didn't think they'd come so soon."

Since his return, he'd felt very little emotion. The
numbness he could handle, and he welcomed it with open
arms. It afforded him the security to hide, to not
feel the confusion, anger and pain.  It helped him to
forget.

But now his emotions were palpable, and he desperately
struggled to bring them under control.  It had only
been a matter of time before they came crashing back.
There had been a time in his life when he'd half-
dreamed about becoming an alien abductee. But now, he
would do anything to have the past year back. He'd
never dreamed that the experience would be as horrific
as it was.

His eyes flooded with long unshed tears, and he
squeezed his lids tightly together as if to force the
moisture back from where it came. Still avoiding her
gaze, he drew in a shaky breath and finally opened his
eyes. "I don't think I can do this."

"Yes, you can," she insisted.

"Every time..." he stammered with a ragged whisper, his
composure unraveling by the second. "Every time I
close my eyes, they're there...I can..." he paused,
fighting for the right words and swallowing hard
before continuing. "I can still feel them touch me... I
was awake when they cut into me."

"I know," she soothed.  "I was awake too."

Her words crashed through him.  Those alien bastards
had not only ripped his flesh apart, they had done the
same to her.  She'd never told him the gory details of
her own abduction, claiming she didn't remember.  It
never dawned on him that she could recall the events.
"No," he whispered, unable to stomach the thought of
his Scully strapped down and tortured like a lab rat.
It was humiliating enough to recall his own abduction,
but absolutely horrifying to think that she had
suffered the same fate.

She struggled her way closer to kneel beside him, and
for once he didn't fight the close proximity. He
didn't recoil as she put a hand on his knee.  "Let me
in, Mulder," she urged, "You don't have to face this
alone. I know what you're going through."

"Make it stop, Scully," he begged, the first cry for
help that he had made since the day had they'd found
him.  "Make my hands stop shaking."

"They will," she soothed quietly "It might not be
tonight, but they will."

He blinked once and a traitorous tear coursed down his
cheek.  He didn't bother to wipe it away.  Wrapping
his arms tighter around himself in a futile attempt to
stop the trembling, Mulder finally found the strength
to look her in the eyes.  "Tell me," he pleaded, his
voice faltering by the moment. "Tell me they didn't do
this to you, Scully.  Tell me they didn't do it."

Leaning forward, she cupped the side of his face with
the palm of her hand, wiping the tear away with her
thumb.  "Our experiences were different, Mulder," she
offered.  "But they hurt me just the same. I know what
it feels like to be used by them.  I know what it is
like to close your eyes and still feel Them all
around, wondering if They're coming back to finish the
job."

"No," he repeated.  It was too much too handle.
Everything in his life seemed tainted by them.
Drawing in an uneasy breath, he squeezed his eyes shut
and released it in a grinding sob. "No!"

Blindly he collapsed into her waiting arms, just as
he'd done when his mother died. Her warm embrace
helped to erase a bit of the agony if only for a
moment.  His body shook as grief consumed him, and for
the first time since his capture, he was finally able
to mourn the atrocities inflicted upon his soul.

Scully held him for several long moments, absorbing
his suffering in silence. Never once did she offer
trite words of encouragement or attempt to stifle his
release. But rather she afforded him the space to work
through his pain. He felt her hand gently stroke his
back as every emotion that had died with him finally
joined him in resurrection.  Her sweater felt scratchy
against his cheek, but it reassured him that she
wasn't a dream, that she was real.  She was his
touchstone, his constant, a safe haven in this growing
storm of uncertainty.

And when the tears could no longer flow, Mulder heard
himself whisper into her hair, "I want my life back."

Scully smoothed his disheveled hair and placed a
gentle kiss on the top of his head before answering,
"Then fight, Mulder.  We've come this far together.
If you give up now, then they win."

Pulling back, Mulder wiped his eyes with the cuff of
his shirt.  "I didn't think it would be this hard," he
uttered into his hands.

"No one said it would be easy," she replied as she
released him and grabbed at the sink to hoist her
gravid body to a stand.  Before she could even
struggle with such a difficult task, he quickly stood
and helped his very pregnant partner to her feet.

"What time is it?" he finally asked swiping at his
nose with the back of one hand.

"Late," she answered, wrapping her arm around his
waist. He didn't put up any resistance as she guided
him toward the living room.  Pointing him toward the
couch, she suggested.  "I don't think either of us are
going to get any more sleep.  Go you sit down,
partner, while I make us some tea."

Sinking into the weathered cushions, Mulder scrubbed
his palms over his weary face before wrapping himself
in the rumpled blanket. He'd spent months shivering in
the dark. No matter what he did, he still couldn't get
warm.  And to add to it, he was so tired that he
ached. But that was still vastly better than the soul-
crushing nothingness he'd felt earlier.  Looking up at
her as she rummaged through his cupboards, he called
out, "I don't have any tea."

Setting a box of herbal tea and two mismatched mugs on
the counter, she grabbed the teakettle off the stove
and waddled to the sink.  Filling it with water from
the tap, she smiled back at him and answered, "You do
now, G-man."

It didn't take long for the water to come to a boil
and for a plume of steam to whistle from the kettle,
rousing Mulder with a start from a slight doze. His
head jerked up as Scully made her way back to the
couch with steaming mugs in hand.

"I must've been away for a while," he tried to joke
staring at her rounded midsection.  "When did you
sprout a basketball?"

Placing both mugs on the coffee table, she joined him
on the couch.  A slight smile spread across her face.
"Actually, I was hoping for a volleyball," she quipped
in return.

Mulder's eyes darkened.  The world had continued to
spin without him. Scully's body had undergone such a
dramatic transformation in his absence.  "God, have I
missed a lot," he conceded, unable to take his eyes
off her rounded belly.

Leaning forward, Scully reached for her mug and took a
sip before answering, "Mulder, I don't know if you
will understand what it was like learning of your
abduction, and then searching for you and finding you
dead.  And now to have you back..."

"It can't be any worse than wondering if I would live
long enough to see you again," he sighed, relieving
her of her mug and briefly seeking its warmth between
his palms before placing it next to his on the table.
An unsettling chill raced down his spine, and he
swallowed hard before continuing.  "I don't know which
was worse, the experiments or being separated from
you.  There were some days I prayed to die just so I
didn't have to think about either."

Scully sniffled back a tear. "I prayed, too," she said
as she bit her lip. "I prayed a lot. And my prayers
have been answered."

An uneasy queasiness settled into the pit of his
stomach as he watched her possessively stroke that
gentle swell of hers.  She had clearly moved on with
her life in his absence.  The child that they had
unsuccessfully tried to conceive before he was taken
had never come to be. And while he was gone, a new
life had blossomed within her - one that did not
involve him.  Looking into her tear-filled eyes, he
whispered, "In more ways than one."

This was something she had wanted more than anything
in the world, maybe more than she had wanted him.  As
much as it hurt to be on the outside looking in, he
knew there was no way around it.  She was going to be
a mother, and he was going to support her and her
decision to move forward the best he could.

Shoving the ugly head of jealousy back into the
darkened corners of his mind, Mulder tried his best to
offer his approval, "I'm happy for you," he commented,
inwardly furious that his words sounded flat and
meaningless.  "I know how much this means to you.
I'm..." he tripped over his thoughts.  "I'm glad you
were able to find another donor and get on with your
life while I was gone."

"Mulder..." she started, her quiet voice trailing off in
mid-thought.  Her hand drifted to the collar of his t-
shirt, briefly stroking the part of his scar that
peeked over the top of the fabric.  Immediately he
flinched backward as though her touch scalded his
sensitive skin.  But she didn't relent; rather, she
took his hand in hers and continued.  "I didn't get on
with my life.  Part of me died when I found out They'd
taken you.  In fact, it was one of the most difficult
days of my life.  I don't know what was harder -
finding out that I may never see you again or
realizing that I was having a child that may never get
the opportunity to meet his father."

Silenced in a mixture of confusion and mute
wonderment, Mulder could do little but stare back at
his partner.  Slowly, a light went on in that dusty
cavern of a brain of his and he stammered, "But...I
thought it didn't take."

Tucking a loose tendril of hair behind her ear, she
nervously replied, "It didn't.  They never play by the
rules, so why should we?  It doesn't matter how, but I
was already pregnant by the time you vanished.  I just
didn't know it yet."

Hiking her sweater over the swell of her abdomen and
pushing the waistband of her leggings down a bit,
Scully took his hand and drew it to her, placing his
fingertips over her belly button.  "I want you to feel
this," she said as she ran his fingers along a small
scar that followed the crescent of her navel.
Ignoring his protest before it could even come to
fruition, she added, "I bet you didn't even know I had
this scar. I didn't know I had it until recently
either.  It was pretty well hidden until the baby made
it more obvious."

Her gaze locked with his as his fingertips traced the
curve of her navel.  "It's a laproscopic surgical
scar, but I swear I've never had any surgery.  It's
where they harvested my ova."

And at that very moment, Mulder's eyes widened with
surprise as he felt something tiny yet powerful kick
beneath his fingers.  Spreading his palm out, he
broadened his hand to caress her entire abdomen, a
smile brightening his darkened features as a foot - or
fist - brushed against his fingertips a second time.

Capturing his outstretched hand beneath hers, Scully
fingers laced with his.  "You see, Mulder, They can
scar us as much as they want.  They can try to maim
us.  God knows they've tried to kill us."

"But we've beaten them, Mulder.  He's proof of it.  He
was never supposed to be conceived; they've tried
everything to prevent it.  But he's here despite
everything.  And if this little guy can beat the odds,
then we both owe it to our son not to give up, not
after everything we've been through.  We've come too
far to go back now. So no more ditching us, partner.
Do you hear me? The three of us are in it for the long
haul whether you want us to or not. And we'll be here
for you no matter how awful things may seem right
now."

Retrieving his hand from her midsection, Mulder
brought her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across
her fingertips, closing his eyes as he reacquainted
himself with her touch, her scent.  "A son," he
breathed in wonder. The concept of parenthood was both
frightening and exciting, but it was the best news he
could've heard.

"Ours, Mulder," she affirmed, pulling him closer to
her until his head rested on her lap. "Made the old-
fashioned way, not in a lab, not by some grand
conspiracy.  Just you and me."

"And he's okay?" he asked, his imagination already
painting ugly pictures of genetically altered hybrids
and top-secret meddling.

"He's not alien, if that's what you mean," she
answered as her she tucked the blanket around him like
a protective cocoon.  "He's one-hundred percent human.
He's our little miracle."

"But you're sure..." he started, his gnawing skepticism
getting the best of him.

"He's fine, Mulder," she interrupted.

Fine.  For once he liked the sound of that word coming
from her.  For once he believed her when she said it.

Slowly, he could feel that first layer of anxiety lift
from his shoulders.  Its oppressive weight no longer
present, he could finally begin to breathe easier.
Scully was right. Though they had stripped him of so
much he had fought for, they weren't able to suppress
the hope that had flourished within his partner. And
in that hope, Fox Mulder found the strength he'd been
searching for.

Maybe the truth wasn't out there waiting on some alien
craft, or buried in a pile of bureaucratic paperwork.
Perhaps the truth was something fragile that Scully
fostered within her womb. He couldn't turn his back on
that truth. He needed to protect and nurture it.

Comforted by that thought, he glanced toward the
window.  It had finally stopped raining, and the sky
was a calming black - still several hours before the
sun would rise over the tree-lined roadways.  But now
the blackness did not seem nearly as daunting, and
dawn not nearly the insurmountable hurdle to overcome.

Unable to stifle a deep yawn, he felt his eyelids grow
heavy.  The nightmares would return, but not tonight.
Sleep beckoned, enveloping him in the rich folds of
its velvet tapestry.  For the first time since his
abduction, Mulder willingly surrendered himself to its
comforting darkness.